


Oh, Arthur.

by emmygranger95



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: AU where good things happen, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Bisexual Sadie Adler, F/M, M/M, Multi, Period-typical homophobia?? lol Can’t Relate, Possible Smut? Unsure Yet, THIS IS SELF-INDULGENT, i like to keep their options open because of reasons, in this house we love and support our bisexuals, not spoiler free, pretty much everyone is bisexual, the reasons being i want to be their option but that's....impossible haha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 22:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmygranger95/pseuds/emmygranger95
Summary: Hello my friend we meet againIt's been a while, where should we begin?Feels like foreverWithin my heart are memoriesOf perfect love that you gave to meOh, I remember...Newly updated! on this, the 25th day of March!





	1. Nothing Else Matters

**Author's Note:**

> I needed some comfort. It's been two weeks since I finished watching the game (my husband played it), and I'm still catching feelings. I needed something comforting in my life because I still can't cope. Anyway, here's to happy endings.

John hadn’t seen Arthur in nearly a decade. The last time he’d seen him, he was running away from Dutch and Micah, tripping his way over stones and dirt on a bloody mountainside. The Pinkertons were right on their tail, too, and Arthur had stayed behind to give John and his family a chance at survival. It ached John to the core to leave him, the way he had, but Arthur hadn’t really given him much of a choice. He was a stubborn old fool if John had ever met one, and it only made sense that he was, given the kind of men that he’d been raised by.

It was difficult to tell which gunshot of the many he’d heard echo throughout the hills was the one that got him, but he remembered one in particular that sounded so terrifying John tripped over his boots and fell to the ground, a cry of frustration preceding the tears that sprang from his eyes, as his heart skipped a beat when he knew. He _knew_ , and there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do about it now. Arthur was gone, and he’d never come back.

John coughed up bile in the bushes, pang of misery convulsing through him from the battle he’d gone through hours before, on the train. The anxiety bubbling did nothing to help matters, and it took him several moments to calm himself. He thought of Abigail, of Jack...they were waiting on him at Copperhead's Landing, with Mrs. Adler protecting them. He knew how wild she could be, and reckless. He only hoped she kept them safe until he got there.

“John, you sorry son of a bitch,” he huffed out, struggling to stand up in his grief and agony, the sound of Pinkerton horses rumbling beneath his feet, “this ain’t no time to be a weak bastard.”

He wandered through the trees, hiding when necessary from men on horseback John knew he couldn’t outrun. He walked all the way down the mountain, until he caught sight of the yellow gaslights hanging from the wooden buildings of Copperhead's Landing. Hiding in the shadows from any officials roaming about, he found the house that Arthur told him his family was hiding in. Sadie opened the door with a cocked gun at his face and a knife to his groin.

“Mrs. Adler, always a pleasure,” John groaned.

“John!” Abigail cried from behind her, rushing past the other woman and pulling him into her arms. “John, you’re alive!”

He didn’t have time to register any other words being spoken, before everything went dark.

***

“Wake up, you scarred fool.”

“Leave me be.”

“Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I always knew you were a lazy sod.”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll be quiet when you learn to wake up before the sun rises.”

“It’s no wonder nobody likes you,” John grunted, eyes flying open to find Arthur dropping his hat on his face.

“Does it look like your opinions matter to me, John Marston? Now wake the hell up before I make sure you never wake up again.”

“Always with the threats,” John’s feet touched the grass as he willed himself awake, “You ever try bein’ nice to people?”

“Last time I was nice to somebody I ended up in jail.”

“That doesn’t say much, considerin’ we’re always runnin’ from the law.”

“Ah, still probably ain’t worth it to be nice to you.” Arthur whistled for his horse, patting her gently when she trotted over obediently. “Now, that’s a good girl.”

John sighed as he put his boots on, then put on his dark overcoat. He walked over to his own horse, pulling a carrot out of his coat and feeding the animal. “Oh, _what a good girl._ ”

“You mocking me, Johnny boy?”

John instantly saw red, but kept his emotions in check long enough to mount his horse and follow Arthur to his destination, wherever the hell that was. The truth was, he never knew where he stood with Arthur. One minute, they were like best friends, working together - protecting each other - completely on the same page. And the next, he was listening to Arthur’s incessant poking and prodding, pinpointing all the little things about John that John couldn’t stand about himself. He couldn’t get a read on him sometimes, and it was beginning to drive him nuts. He’d think that after twenty years of Arthur’s bullcrap, he’d be used to it by now.

Maybe he _was_ just a weak son of a bitch.

Or maybe, he was just sensitive to Arthur’s provocations because he longed for his approval. He’d been the apple of Dutch’s eye since they found him, but even as a kid he knew he wasn’t Dutch’s first son. The golden boy, at least to John, was Arthur. And Arthur was the one he always wanted to impress. As a child, he sought the approval of the older boy by following him around everywhere, wanting to learn everything that Arthur could do, just like him. As an older man now, he just wanted his respect. So he did as he was told. Hell, he thought, he’d probably die for Arthur ten times over, if it meant that Arthur would see him as an equal.

But it felt like Arthur always kept his respect a feather out of reach.

“You’re awfully quiet back there. The wolves get your tongue, too?”

“Why are you always screwin’ with me, Morgan? Don’t you have anything better to do? Why do you always call me for help on a job when it seems like you can’t even stand me half the time? Why don’t you get Charles, or-or Lenny to-”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, John, we’re here.” Arthur dismounted his horse, setting it at a picket just outside of Valentine. The sun was rising above the trees, painting the sky in gorgeous pink and orange hues. John settled his horse beside Arthur’s and leaned against the nearest tree, wondering what in the hell this was all about.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, John picking at the grass bordering the tree. He should have taken comfort in the refreshing breeze blowing through the town, but his stomach was full of anxiety. He knew Arthur had reasons for doing the things he did, so he didn’t like to ask more than once. But Arthur was silent, and it was beginning to rub him the wrong way.

Just before John opened his mouth, Arthur stirred, picking himself up. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” John asked, already irritated at Arthur’s silence up until this point.

“The book wagon, John. The book wagon.” Sure enough, John heard the faint sound of clopping hooves on dirt road, the wagon coming into view.

John scowled. “Book wagon? You woke me up before sunrise so we could rob a book wagon?”

“Not rob it, you dumb bastard.” Arthur scoffed. “It’s for the _kid_ , John. For Jack.”

“There you go, pretending to be his father again,” John quipped, “You sure the kid ain’t yours?”

John was held up by the lapels of his coat and slammed against the tree before he could even speak another word. Arthur’s eyes were bright with anger, his jaw clenched tight beneath his cowboy hat. Though John feared for his life in that moment, he couldn’t help but notice just how picturesque Arthur looked. It was damn near distracting, in a moment where he should have been completely focused on finding a way to tame the man’s wrath.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of you runnin’ your mouth, boy. The fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t have anything to do with the kid if you’d just man up. Even if he weren’t yours -hell, even if the kid was _mine_ \- you love Abigail, don’t you?”

John struggled to speak. “Y-yeah, I do.” He gasped.

“Then what the hell are we even talkin’ about this for? Do right by her son, and you do right by her. Don’t make me have to say this again.” Arthur set John down, mounting back on his horse and heading towards the book wagon. “Reasons as to why I brought you along was so you could take the credit. You think I want your kid likin’ me more ‘n he likes you?”

John swallowed, feeling like a real piece of shit. All Arthur ever did was try to help him be better, and John was always second-guessing his intentions. It was wrong, and unfair. But he could never tell Arthur that.

“What kind of books should we get him?”

Arthur smiled at him, and it damn near took John’s breath away. “I was hopin’ _you_ could tell me.”

***

“Anything else you need from town, sir?”

“Nothin’ you could buy me in a store, son. You be careful.”

“I will.”

“You sure you don’t wanna take Uncle with you? I sure would appreciate it.”

“Ah, I don’t think that’d be a good idea, sir. What if he gets into a fight at the saloon?”

“I guess you’re right, Jack. Well, I tried.” John shrugged, patted the horses, made sure they were hitched correctly to the wagon. “Go on.”

“I’ll see you in a couple hours, sir.”

“Good luck.”

John watched his son drive away, hoping to whoever was up in the sky that his son would make it back home safe. It was the first time since Abigail left that he felt at ease enough to let Jack go anywhere by himself. Truth be told, he was afraid. Afraid that Jack would leave one day and never come back. Just like Abigail. Just like the gang. Just like...Arthur.

“Where’s the kid?” Uncle grunted, taking a swig from his bottle.

“None of your damn business. Now come help me with the herd, would ya? I’m sick of you not earnin’ your keep around here.”

“Now wait just a minute-”

_Goddamn,_ John rolled his eyes. _He won’t shut up the rest of the morning. This is what I get for antagonizing the man._ “You know what, Uncle? You go ahead and rest. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Well,” Uncle grinned. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I _insist._ ”

“All right then, Marston.”

John spent the whole morning out on the ranch, repairing his fence where one of the more belligerent bulls had rammed through. After finishing with that, he took a small break under the shade of the tree that looked over Abigail’s garden, wondering where in the hell his life went wrong. He thought Abigail was happy all these years, slavin’ away by his side, watching their little ranch grow into something respectable.

_Must not have been good enough._

He sighed quietly to himself. Oddly, her leaving didn’t feel like the end of the world. When she packed up and left, it was just the icing on the cake of a life he screwed up all on his own. It was the last consequence in a series of consequences that were well deserved, from what he could tell.

_Oh, Arthur. If you could see me now. Some life you saved._

Arthur Morgan. The only person in his life who didn’t leave out of selfishness. Quite the opposite, really.

John’s nose flared, his body unable to handle reliving old memories. Thinking about Arthur only made him into a mess. In all these years, he’d found and reacquainted himself with all of his friends. Charles and Uncle helped him build the ranch from the ground up, when it was just some backwater piece of crap halfway between Strawberry and Blackwater. Sadie helped him find work (of dubious means), and he even found Mr. Pearson working in Rhodes when he had to deliver a bounty there one day. He spent the night at his house, and even had some of Pearson’s famous beef stew. He missed his cooking so much, especially after living off Abigail's for so long. Lenny he heard was up north, had started a good life with Tilly Jackson. They were partners and owners of a hotel and saloon. Mary Beth, he found working in a law office as some sort of secretary clerk. She told him she was thinking of writing a book about their adventures.

_Adventures._ Made it sound like they were heroes on a journey. He scoffed. Dutch sure thought that’s what they were. “Dutch weren’t no hero,” he whispered to himself. “And neither am I.” _But Arthur was._

All these years, he managed to find all of the friends he had left.

Except Arthur.

And he wasn’t going to.

***

John woke to the sound of Jack approaching in the wagon. He wiped the sleep off his face, disgusted to find that his hands were covered in dirt from sleeping underneath a tree outside. Wiping his hands off on his work pants, he met Jack in front of the house, surprised to find him not alone.

“Hey, pop,” Jack embraced him. John was surprised at the greeting, his son not being one to hug often, or have any physical contact with anyone. He was a quiet kid. But John was weary of the man moving quietly in the shadows of the wagon. “You’ll never guess who I found.”

“Yeah? Who is it?”

“ _Johnny Marston._ ”

John’s face went white and his fingers went numb, a cold shiver roaming up his spine. The broad-shouldered man dressed all in black had his face hidden beneath his hat, but he knew that smirk. That stubbled jawline. The leaning of his body, and the hand at his belt buckle. And it nearly swept John off his damn feet.

“Arthur.”

“Come here, you dumb bastard.” He pulled John into a tight hug, and for the first time in a long time John felt like he didn’t have to watch over his shoulder, like he didn’t have to worry about every little thing, like everything that ever mattered in this world was right here, standing in front of him. And yet… he had to know. He had to know how. But first, he was going to revel in the feeling of Arthur’s warmth, his tender embrace absolutely bein’ the thing he needed in this moment.

When Arthur pulled away, he gave John a look like he was waiting on John to say something. Anything. John cleared his throat, realizing he had to play the part of man-of-the-house. “You want to come in?”

Arthur bit his lip, eyes bright with an emotion John couldn’t figure out. “Sure.”


	2. Simple Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Boy, don't you worry, you'll find yourself_   
>  _Follow your heart, and nothing else_   
>  _And you can do this, oh baby, if you try_   
>  _All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that enjoyed chapter one! I didn't think I'd receive such nice feedback, so thank you to those that bothered. I hope you enjoy chapter 2 :D

“Jack, go put the horses in the stable and put the stuff you bought away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack walked away contentedly, knowing he’d pleased his father in the most miraculous way possible. It was a complete accident, actually. Jack had been passing by in the wagon, past the doctor’s office, when he noticed Arthur walking out. Hell, he’d have known that man anywhere. He wasn’t someone Jack would forget. When he was younger, he remembered the man took him fishing, and...that’s when everything started going wrong. But Arthur? He remained a good man to him, even with Dutch getting worse off every day.

The day Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing, Jack had told him that he’d left some of his books back in the snow house, the house up in the Grizzlies. John came home with a pile of books for him to read a few weeks later, and it was the happiest he’d ever been in his short life. Half of those books, he still owned, even though they were dusty and piled all in his chest at the foot of his bed. But he still remembered the spark of happiness in Arthur’s eyes when his father gifted Jack those books. Like he was proud of him.

That was Jack’s favorite trait about Arthur. He supported John with every breath he took. And knowing that his father had a friend like that out there in the world was everything, especially after his mother leaving. So he took a chance, and called out to Arthur on the street.

“Uncle Arthur?” he’d said, just loud enough that the man heard it before he rounded the corner.

Arthur furrowed his brow, thinking, _Who in the world would call me Uncle?_ He turned around slowly, the realization hitting him as he looked at a young boy, almost matured enough to be called a man, and recognizing the freckles gifted to him by one of his favorite people in the entire world. “Well, if it isn’t the son of Abigail Roberts and Johnny Marston.”

Jack smiled. “You know he hates it when he’s called that.”

“Sure. That’s why I do it. It’s good to light a fire under your father every once in a while.” Arthur looked around. “He with you?”

The boy shook his head. “He’s at the ranch. You know Beecher’s Hope? It’s right down the road. Father bought it a while back for Ma, and we’ve been there a couple years now.”

“Beecher’s Hope.” Arthur repeated the words. After all this time, John finally made it out. He was a family man, with a home and a ranch besides. “I bet Abigail loves it.”

Jack’s face dimmed at the words, but he didn’t want this conversation to be about that. Arthur would figure it out soon enough. For now, he just wanted to get Arthur to the ranch. “You should have seen her face light up when she saw it for the first time. You want to come see it?”

Arthur nodded. “You know I do.”

*******

John led Arthur into the living room, the jitters perpetually in a frenzy that he couldn’t control no matter how much he tried. This was Arthur, after all. The six foot one outlaw that he spent the prime years of his life with, who helped John become a man even though he wasn’t deserving of his help. John pursed his lips, willing all the self-deprecation that had been the crux of his personality for the past couple years into a dusty corner of his mind.

He wasn’t going to let his head ruin a good moment. He damned sure wasn’t.

“If it looks like I’m havin’ a hard time processin’ this, you’d be right.” John moved into the kitchen, gesturing for Arthur to relax and get comfortable. “I need a drink.”

“Reckon you should pour out a second one.” Arthur mused.

John looked over at him, bottle poised in mid-air, before pulling out another glass. “Reckon you’re right. You know, I was out in town the other mornin’, and I could’ve swore I saw what looked like—“ His heart skipped a beat when he heard Arthur’s boots click on the hardwood floor. “—Um, I saw a man, who I—“ John could feel Arthur’s breath at the nape of his neck, and it was getting to be too much for him to handle.

“Ar...Arthur…” John’s heart beat rapidly at his chest, and the air was leaving his lungs.

“John,” Arthur’s voice was so goddamned unbelievable.

 _Is it even possible to sound so smooth, and so rough at the same time?_ John closed his eyes, begging his hands not to give out on him now, but it was no use. They were shaking like an old man’s, and he really felt like a smoke. But no, he couldn’t do that, that was another in list of many _distasteful_ habits he’d given up for Abigail, and John wasn’t about to go back on it now. Hell, they’d both given up on that one. _Talk about tempting...the most tempting thing here ain’t no cigarette, and it ain’t no glass of scotch._

“I…” Arthur turned away from him for a moment, before placing a hand on John’s shoulder, “I owe you an explanation.”

John scoffed, unable to look at the man without which he wouldn’t have gotten to live the past decade. “You? Owe _me?_ You talk stupid, Morgan. You don’t owe me shit.” His fingers finally stopped shaking long enough to pour his drink, and he slid one to the older man. “If anyone owes anyone, it’s me. You see all this?” He gestured to the roof over their heads, let Arthur’s eyes wander to the window, and the dusk settling down on the ranch. “All of this wouldn’t be mine, if it weren’t for you. My son wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you. Abigail—“ John paused.

“What is it?” Arthur grew concerned. “John, what’s happened to Abigail?”

“She...she’s gone.” The look of utter shock in Arthur’s eyes was enough for John to realize he misspoke. “Somewhere. I don’t know where. Been gone a year. And she ain’t comin’ back, far as I know.”

“Now, why would she go do a thing like that?”

John shook his head. “You tell me. I did everything she wanted. I listened. She wanted Beecher’s Hope, I got her Beecher’s Hope. She wanted me to keep on the straight and narrow, I got on the straight and narrow—well, except a few times. But it gets pretty difficult to say no to Mrs. Adler when she needs help and the pay is good.”

Arthur nodded and shrugged, completely understanding. “Sure.”

“I built the house, I took care of our son, I became a rancher.”

“Sounds like you did right by her, John.” Arthur downed his scotch, and patted him on the back.

John diverted his eyes. “‘Course. I owed it to you, and to myself. And especially to her.” And that’s when he couldn’t take it anymore. The glass hit the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces. John's voice broke. “So why the hell did she leave?”

Arthur’s strong arms wrapped tightly around him again before John even had a chance to think, and it just felt so right. Feeling wanted. Feeling accepted.

Arthur breathed in, catching the scent of hay, dirt, the sun. He held John close, hoping he could convey the words he wanted to say through physical contact. Communicating was always so much easier when you could write it down, think about it, prepare it. Knowing that one’s words were thought out carefully. But in the shadow of such a question, he knew there wasn’t much he could say that would make much sense. “I don’t know.” Without a second to think, he kissed John on the forehead, and looked adoringly into his eyes. “But she was a fool.”

“Ten years ago, you told her she was a fool for lovin’ me.”

“Yeah, well. I lied.” Arthur’s fingers reached out to John’s face lightheartedly. _Now, me on the other hand...talk about a fool._

John’s nose twitched, head turning. “Good to know. Anyway,” he retreated a couple steps, suddenly very aware of how intimately close they had been, “you probably want to settle down. There’s a spare room, if you want it. Might wanna check to see if Uncle's passed out on the bed. He'll usually sleep there if he's too drunk to make it up the ladder to his room in the attic.”

Arthur grinned, the look of concern leaving his features in acknowledgment that it wasn’t going to help John to read the pity on his closest friend’s face. “So that’s where that lazy feller’s been; I should’ve known.”

“It’s the second door to the right, next to Jack’s room. And the wash room is across from our—my—bedroom. Uh, if you want to clean up before dinner. Reckon it won’t be nothin’ but soup from a can, but it’s something warm to settle an empty stomach.”

“Sure, guess I’ll go and settle in then.”

John’s hands settled at his waist with a sigh. “All right.”

Arthur gave John a once-over, the cutest little grin on his face, before walking out of the kitchen.

“Oh, damn.” John huffed. It was like he couldn’t breathe. All of the air had been sucked out of the room, and his chest felt close to caving in. He needed air, and he had a feeling he wasn’t going to get it by walking outside.

*******

The next morning, Arthur woke up to the sound of raindrops pattering against the wooden roof. The petite window adjacent to the bedside table depicted dark, rolling clouds blanketing the sky over Beecher’s Hope. Just as he got up from bed, arms stretching the sleepy from his bones, he noted the white streak that cracked the sky. One Lemoyne. Two Lemoyne. Three Lemoyne. In the distance, thunder rolled. Little over half a mile away from the ranch, seemed like.

 _I better get out there and give John a helping hand,_ Arthur thought. Grumpy John wasn’t his favorite sight to see, and Arthur would definitely see him that way if John stayed out there doing his work all alone.

He put on one of his old work shirts on, then pulled on his suspenders and his work trousers. No doubt he was going to get dirty, so there was no use in looking nice, even if he was planning on letting John see him like this. A knock on the door had him opening it to reveal Jack, who held a wash basin full of clean water in his hands.

“Figured you’d need this, Uncle Arthur. Did you sleep all right?”

“Thanks, son. I sure did.” He set the basin down on the dresser, in front of the wide mirror. Arthur did himself the favor of not looking at himself in it, knowing all he would find was a middle-aged man with no decent features to speak of. “What’s your father up to on this dreadful mornin’?”

“Not so dreadful if it means we can stay in and read all day, Uncle Arthur.” Jack countered, his voice shaking slightly like Arthur’s did as a young boy. He would grow out of it, eventually.

“Of course. Should’ve pegged you for the indoors-readin’ type.” Arthur splashed his face with some water, and Jack handed him a small towel to wipe off with. “But I think it’s best you and I both go and help your pa before he gets into a foul temper.”

“You’re probably right. Especially since Uncle’s still passed out drunk. Reckon that don’t help matters. Oh, pa’s in the barn milkin’ the cows.”

“If I see that, I’ve seen it all,” Arthur mused, raising a laugh from the young boy. He smiled, stroking the top of Jack’s head that about reached his shoulders. The kid had grown up so fast. Arthur was sorry to have missed most of it. “Let’s go find ‘im.”

*******

“Betts, you old heifer, I’m about sick of your nonsense!” A low bellow came from the cow’s mouth, the cow taunting him as it tipped the nearly full pail of milk at John’s feet, milk spilling all over the floor of her stall. “God damn it. Now look what you’ve done!”

“You’re too rough with her, you fool.”

John turned, the sight of Jack and Arthur doing nothing good to his feeling of shame. It pricked at his pride, knowing they witnessed something so idiotic. “Story of my life,” he muttered. “I guess you came to see me try my hand at ranching.”

“Emphasis on try.”

John huffed, glancing from a smirking Arthur leaning against the side of the stall to his son hiding his laughter behind his hand. “You see how your uncle treats me? Like a common drunk at a saloon.”

Jack nodded, grabbing a broom to sweep away the strawy, milky mess around his groaning father.

Arthur rolled his eyes in an effort to fuel John’s temper. “I figure, _surely_ the least you could do was take my backhanded comments every once in a while.”

John sat silent on his stool for a second, pausing as thunder rumbled outside. It was unfair to both of them that the world diverged their paths. For a decade, they were separated, left to fight their own battles. John, in constant danger of turning back to the life they left behind and then the subsequent, foreign way of life he chose to lead with Abigail. Arthur, gone who knows where. As much as he loved Abigail, he struggled for so long to make her happy. With Arthur, it was always easy. The road wasn’t always smooth, but they always found a way to make it work, even with all of Arthur’s badgering comments. “I missed it. Your whining.” _I missed_ you. _Your voice._ He willed Arthur to understand his meaning.

Arthur gave John an intense gaze, it all but made John squirm. Arthur so loved to look into John’s deep brown eyes. They hid everything, and hid nothing. Just like the person they belonged to.

 _Damn you, Morgan, you dumb son of a bitch. Never could do much against a pair of soft brown eyes, could you? Copper, Benny. Mary, John. Those brown eyes’ll be the death of you, you old coot._ Arthur smacked himself mentally. They nearly were, on multiple occasions.

Arthur sighed, giving John his sweetest half-smile. “Need a hand?”

John shrugged. “Why not, I guess.”

They spent the morning milking cows and cleaning up the barn, besides keeping the animals company as the storm continued savagely. At one point, it became clear they had nothing to do, so they decided to play a little bit of dominos, a little bit of five finger fillet. Jack very wisely stayed out of it, leaving the latter game to the two old-timers that refused to believe they weren’t as reflexive as they once were. He held his book in front of him, trying his best to read, but it was too entertaining to watch. The impending bloodshed and subsequent colorful cursing that would proceed it was too impressive to miss.

“Blasted son of a cockchafer!”

“Really? In front of my son? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s the knife _in my hand!_ ”

“Oh, sweet niblets,” John leapt out of his stool, motioning for Jack to hand him a towel. “Stop movin’, you’ve had worse.”

Arthur winced. “I ain’t a young sprig no more, John, it _bites!_ ”

“Jack, I think the storm’s stopped. Go up in the attic to Uncle’s room and find me a bottle o’ whiskey.”

Jack nodded, closing his book down on a dog-eared page and running dutifully out of the barn.

“That for my hand or my mouth?” Arthur tried to smile through the pain.

 _Oh, I got somethin' for your mouth._ John shook his head. _What the hell was that?_ “No, it’s for me. Dealin’ with you is a hassle.”

“Consider it karma doin’ its job. How many times did I have to take care o’ you when you did somethin’ stupid?”

“Ain’t no one asked you to take care of me, old man.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was the principle. Weren’t no one younger than me but you, at least when you first started ridin’ with us. How was I supposed to let that scrawny little boy who claimed he was Scottish all alone in a band of thievin’, murderin’ outlaws?”

John glanced away. “I ain’t too sure about that.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to figure it out on your own, ‘cause I know why I did it.” Arthur bit his lip, his fingers wriggling in John’s grip. John was holding onto him like his life depended on it, and it almost made Arthur blush. If middle-aged cowboys could blush, that is. 

John applied pressure to the wound, feeling the natural strength of Arthur’s toned muscles beneath his own fingers. All this talk was getting him anxious. They were headed into intimate waters that he wasn’t sure he wanted to wade through. “Jack should be back by now.”

“Why are you changin’ the subject?” Arthur cocked his head to the side, a curious gleam in his eye.

“I ain’t.”

“Sure.”

The word hit him like a shot of lightning to the chest. Arthur’s drawl was uncanny; John couldn’t reproduce it if he tried. Every time he heard it, it flustered him to bits. The word travelled all the way through his body and stopped in places he was too embarrassed to say. John cleared his throat.

“What kind of idiotic tomfoolery are you pullin’, John Marston? Sendin’ this boy to steal my whiskey!” The old coot burst through the barn door in a flurry.

“I thought you were passed out drunk, you freeloadin’ parasite.”

“I told you! My lumbago—“

“Uncle. Glad to see you’re still alive.” Arthur interjected, stopping Uncle dead in his tracks.

“Ar—Arthur?” Uncle stammered, his hands shaking like he’d seen a ghost, and he damn sure had. “I thought you was dead.”

“Could say the same to you.”

“Oh, you know me. I’m a survivor, Arthur.”

Jack sidestepped Uncle and sat down on the stool next to Arthur, popping open the bottle expertly against the side of the blood soaked table. John made a mental note to ask his son when he became so adept at opening whiskey bottles. Uncle and Arthur reached for each other, doing the typical pat on the back as they shook hands in an awkward embrace.

“Charles told us he searched that mountainside for days and never found your body. He guessed the wolves had eaten you, ya know.” Uncle sat down at the table next to Arthur, looking disgustedly at the blood on its surface and keeping his elbows to his sides. “I guess now we know why he couldn’t find ya.”

“Reckon by the time he came lookin’, my friend Charlotte had already found me lyin’ half dead and took me up to her cabin. She’s a woman I helped up there, taught her how to shoot a gun. Came in real handy when she found me lying in a pool of my own blood with a Pinkerton standing over me.”

John motioned for his son to hand him the whiskey bottle, unsure if he’d be able to cope with the story he’d been dying to know about. As he took a swig, Uncle caught his hand in mid-air and stole the bottle, giving him the evil eye before taking a swig himself. John took it back, and poured the rest of it onto Arthur’s hand. Arthur’s groan terrified the animals more than the lightning had from earlier. It was deep and forceful. John wanted to die.

“Sounds horrible,” Uncle said quietly, completely ignoring the pain Arthur was in even now.

Arthur clicked his tongue, “Nothin’ we ain’t used to, right?”

John and Uncle both nodded. John ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt, began to wrap it gently around Arthur’s fingers, secure enough to keep the blood in (he hoped) but loose enough that it didn’t hurt Arthur.

“But Uncle Arthur, I thought momma told me you were sick?” Jack pointed out.

Arthur glanced at the young boy, swallowing down the bile in his throat. He’d hoped to gloss over those details, for everyone’s sake, but the truth was he didn’t really know much about that part.

“Charlotte took me to Rains Fall, once I was well enough to sit on the horse with her. He gave me more of those herbs. At some point, the smoke in Rains Fall’s tent was gettin’ too much for me. I passed out. Heard him say, ‘This is for your own good,’ before everything went dark.”

“I knew it—I knew you can’t trust them native folk—“ Uncle started, finger pointing high in the air.

“They saved my life, Uncle. You better watch the way you’re speakin’ about good people.” Arthur stared him down, and Uncle shut his mouth. “I don’t know what Rains Fall and his tribe did, but I’m still here and I shouldn’t be."

“Call it magic or their knowledge of nature, I don’t rightly know. When I woke up, there weren’t a cough left in me. I stayed with them for a couple months. The federal government made them move out to a new area, so I helped them make their way, protected them.” Arthur thanked John silently for wrapping his fingers, making John’s heart leap. “Wish I coulda done more, but Rains Fall wouldn’t have it. Not after all the bloodshed his tribe already went through. Some of them split off, didn’t agree with his decision. But the peaceful ones, the pacifists remained. After they were settled, I went further North. I went so far north that if I tried to go any further, I’d end up on my way south again.”

John was glad that Uncle and Jack were here. If Arthur had told him this story alone, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done. Groveled at his feet, maybe. Begged him forgiveness. Broken down. The fact that their paths were at the mercy of fate, that their paths could have crossed so easily if destiny hadn’t been so cruel, hit John like a blow to the gut.

_You dwell too much on the past at the expense of the future._

The blind man’s words echoed through John’s mind for the thousandth time. For the past two years, those words had come to haunt him. Whenever he fought with Abigail a little too harshly, whenever he ignored Jack at the absolute worst time, whenever he had the opportunity to be vulnerable, and he chose not to. When he kept it all inside, and he shouldn’t have. All those moments when he should have chosen differently, he thought about those words. His regret, more than anything, was the shadow that followed him. If only there was some way he could forgive his own debts.

Arthur’s eyes scanned John’s rugged face. He could tell that John was far off, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind. _Self-deprecatin’ himself, most likely,_ Arthur thought.

“I stayed up there a while. Lived mainly off the wildlife. Had a long time to —reflect, I guess— before I decided I’d had enough of reflection and I needed to start back livin’.”

Arthur flexed his bandaged fingers, not quite able to look John in the eyes anymore, for fear of an answer he wasn’t ready for. “I guess what I’m sayin’ is, can I stay here with you?”

John’s heart fluttered at the word ‘you’.

“I figure y’all are the closest thing I got to family nowadays.”

Uncle stayed quiet, knowing this wasn’t his place. If it were up to him, he’d say yes in a heartbeat, even with all the shit Arthur gave him. He wanted Arthur to stay because he figured Arthur would be a change of pace. Old as he was, Uncle got bored. And when he got bored, he got drunk, and he was tryin’ to stop. Sort of. But this was John’s house, and John was a hollow man who wasn’t himself lately. John could say no, with no indication why. And Uncle would have to live with it.

Jack was of the same mind as Uncle. He wanted to Arthur to stay, but for a different reason. He wanted his father to be happy, and of the few times in his life that he’d seen his father happy, half of them were when Arthur was around. Jack caught his father’s eye, and hoped that John would understand the pleading look.

“Sure, I guess,” John sighed. “Reckon you can stay as long as you want.”

Uncle grunted happily, giving Jack a contented look. Jack smiled back, and looked at his father.

He’d have a family again, conventional or not.


	3. Gone Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And it feels_   
>  _And it feels like_   
>  _Heaven's so far away_   
>  _And it feels_   
>  _Yeah it feels like the world has grown cold_   
>  _Now that you've gone away..._

_I’ve been livin’ with John, Uncle, and Jack for a month now, and I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt in years. Helping on the ranch helps keep me occupied, and sometimes I go out hunting with Uncle if he’s sober enough or I’ll even go fishing with Jack, like I did all those years ago._  
_It’s strange. I get the sense that he doesn’t spend much time with John, and yet when I mention it he still talks about his father like he’s the King of Britain. Their relationship is distant at best, and emotionally scarred at worst, given what they’ve had to go through together._  
_I don’t know if my bein’ here is doin’ much to help matters, but Jack insists (insists!) that I spend time with his father, and John seems to avoid bein’ alone with me like the plague._  
_Doesn’t much matter to me either way, because every moment we’re alone it’s like I don’t remember anything else. Everything moves - slowly, I guess - and I all I see is John._  
_I took the egg crates from the chicken coop to the wagon yesterday morning, got them ready for sellin’ in Blackwater. I walked back to the coop and caught John talkin’ to the hens and it made my heart stop._  
_It’s a familiar, yet rare, feeling. One I’ve only had with few people in my life._  
_And I reckon that terrifies me._

*******

“Whaddaya mean, _tutor?_ ” 

“If I’m going to be a lawyer, I have to start now, Pa.” 

John scoffed, incredulous. This came from nowhere, at least that’s what it felt like. Jack had never mentioned this before. “And you’re sure that’s what you want?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jack kept his hands crossed and held at his back, every part of him doing his best to ooze a professionalism and sincerity that he hoped his father would recognize. 

Elbows on his knees, fingers peaking at his mouth, John studied the boy in front of him. He just wasn’t old enough yet. _Was he?_ The boy was almost sixteen. In the northeast, he’d be in his last year of schooling. John bit his lip, wondering if this was really what Jack wanted, or if it was some hare-brained idea that his mother had instilled in him since he was a young child. _Even if it is,_ John thought, _if he wants to do it, I should give him the freedom to decide on his own._ Right? That’s what John’s view of paradise was, wasn’t it? _The freedom to choose my own destiny?_

“This ain’t your Ma talkin’, is it?” John asked, more so to ease his own mind, to know that Jack had thought this through, than to receive a true answer to his question. It killed him to mention her still, and yet he forced himself not to wince at the thought of her still being an influence in his own life and the life of his son. 

“She mentioned it before. On plenty occasions. But I think it’s somethin’ good I can do with my life,” Jack explained, eyes never leaving his father’s. He knew what John responded to the most, and it was goodness and old-fashioned honesty. But a shot of confidence never hurt. 

John sighed, defeated. The kid was telling the truth. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to have a lawyer in the family, now would it?” 

Jack stopped himself from a full out grin. “I reckon I can think of a few reasons myself.” Satisfied with the answer, he looked down at the floor, trying to calm his heartbeat. It took a lot, to talk to his father sometimes. Especially about things that mattered. And now it was time to get down to business. “Okay, so, Pa, the tutor’s coming to the ranch today, and then they’ll be here for the next three days, which means you and Uncle Arthur gotta find something else to occupy yourselves. What if you go fishing?” 

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why do we have to leave?” 

“ _Because,_ ” Jack insisted, “the tutor is _very_ eccentric and they’re going to want anyone who might cause a distraction to be out of the house. Preferably far away. Uncle’s usually at the saloon the whole weekend, so he’s covered. But y’all have to go.” 

“Don’t I get to meet this person first?” 

“Of course, Pa. But then you leave?” 

John wasn’t too keen on this. Something didn’t add up. “Wait, how much does he cost? Ain’t no way a man’s doin’ this for free.” 

“Uncle Arthur said he’d take care of it if you didn’t want to.” 

“Nonsense,” John said quickly, “I got it. Your old man’s got it covered.” 

Jack smiled. “Thanks, Pa. So it’s settled, then?” 

“I guess so.” 

“Good, because I packed your bags and saddled up your horse. My tutor’s comin’ any minute.” 

*******

John didn’t like this at all. A stranger, in his home, teaching his son the art of lawyering while he went out fishing with Arthur. 

The thought made him sick. 

But he went through with it. Because of his son. His son wanted this. His son asked for this. So he’d do it. 

John wasn’t sure if leaving his ranch and his son alone was the only reason he felt queasy. 

Rachel trotted among the soft path through the trees, her canter slowing as the nocturnal animals’ voices grew louder, second only to sound of the Owanjila Dam. John hoped, silently, irrationally, that the fish would not hear them as they rounded the corner of the path, Lake Owanjila in all of its glory opening up to them. Scattered amongst its borders were wildflowers so colorful, he almost shamed himself at the thought of wanting to pick some for Abigail, and then he remembered — she wasn’t anywhere he could find her, even if he did pick her flowers. 

“Let’s camp right here, by the bridge. I hear there’s some great fish in this lake.” John directed, pointing at a nice spot not too far from the dam itself. 

“Sure,” was Arthur’s only reply, finding it ten times easier just to stay quiet. He was honestly astonished at the situation that was developing before him. How in the hell Jack Marston managed to send them off on their own, he’ll never know. The boy was smarter than anyone would ever give him credit for. 

The next question on his mind was a simple one. _Why?_ Why was Jack doing this? Why was he so adamant to have Arthur and John alone? 

John stopped Rachel inches from the sandy shore. “Arthur.” 

“Hm?” Arthur looked up, the moonlight giving his face a brilliant glow. He looked...like he wasn’t all there, and it worried John for a minute. He’d been with them for a few weeks, and John had been avoiding the absolute hell out of him, for the most part. If he found Arthur in the kitchen, he’d step quickly out and into his own bedroom, make like he was busy with something. If they met in the living room, he’d go into the bathroom just down the hall, or Jack’s room to check up on him (he was always fine). And so on. 

It was tiring, but for some reason, John couldn’t stop. It was either that, or sit there and talk to Arthur. Interact with him. Get to know who he became, after he left him on that mountain all those years ago. Now, here they were, finally alone, and it was awkward. John wondered mutely if this was his fault, Arthur’s silence, and - as was his typical fashion - he figured yes. And now he had to find a way to fix it. 

“You set up the tents, and I can get the fire going.” He said. John wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping for (“Always tryin’ to get out of the _hard_ work, ain’t ya?” “Careful not to burn yourself there, cowboy”), but got back nothing. Arthur just nodded back in reply. John knew for a fact something was on Arthur’s mind then; he’d never miss a chance to make fun of John if he could help it. Instead of pushing the matter, though, he just let it go. For the time being. 

They worked softly, looking up from their work every so often at a sharp noise or a distant sound that put Rachel and Sweet Boy on edge. John had mentioned earlier that the ranch hands around Strawberry weren’t particularly taken with him, and had already tried their luck once at stealing John’s prized girl. Arthur smiled softly to himself at that. _I bet he gave them hell._ Still, he was on alert. More than a decade ago, he’d shot up the town to save Micah, the weasel bastard who’d catalyzed the imminent implosion of the gang. He figured some of the older town citizens (the ones still alive) wouldn’t be too keen on seeing him back. 

Arthur glanced at John, who worked diligently on his task. John looked like he was debating something in his mind, and it made his heart jump at the thought. He couldn’t let the silence continue, or John would do what he always did — dig himself into a hole of overthinking. 

“Not far from here, I found a northerner. Said he came to see what all the fuss was about.” 

“Yeah?” John called back, not looking away from his kindling. He knelt beside it, scraping his match across his matchbox to get the fire going. “What’d he say?” 

“He was going back home. Soon as I brought him back to Strawberry, that was. He got lost.” 

John smirked, the sparkle in his eye gleaming red and yellow with the reflection of his newly made fire. He leaned his whole body back, hands reaching for the dirt to keep his balance, a look of panic flashing across his face when he judged the distance incorrectly. He looked back to Arthur, to see if he’d noticed. He hadn’t. “Shoulda just left him there.” 

“Ain’t that the truth.” Arthur’s eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, taking a look at the tears in the fabric of his tent. It seemed to have surpassed its life, and he didn’t like that one bit. Not when he could see the clouds darkening and the rumble of thunder in the distance. He should’ve checked before they’d left. He’d keep quiet about it, though. “Jack told me this is where y’all started up after coming back this way.” Arthur said it like a question, silently pushing John to continue the conversation. 

“Took a job up at the Pronghorn Ranch. Stayed there a while, learned a few things. One night, the same guys that tried to take Rachel, they tried something with the man I worked for. So we went after ‘em.” John paused, feeling the sand beneath his fingers. “The next morning, Abigail took Jack and left. That was the first time.” 

Arthur stopped pitching the tent for a moment. The next words from his mouth were soft, but sincere. “I’m sorry.” 

“Reckon it was the wake-up call I needed. I worked up the courage to ask the man I worked for for a favor. Talk to the bank, help me get a loan. His cousin worked for the bank, so that worked out all right. Bought the piece of crap she wanted. Prove that I was listenin’ to her.” John went silent. 

“I know the rest.” Arthur pulled a small hammer from his saddlebags. He nearly had his tent pitched all the way. 

John nodded. “Neither of us had too much good luck around this town.” 

“Got that right, Johnny.” He dropped the hammer down on the first peg. Once, twice, three times. 

John tilted his head all the way back, glad to have the normal Arthur back. He gazed at the stars in the sky in awe, and suddenly felt very small. So small, it nearly gave him a fright. He cleared his throat, “Need some help, old feller?” 

“‘Old feller.’ Old feller, my ass.” Arthur shot John a look, and prepared the next peg on his tent. 

“The words ‘old feller’ and ‘ass’ don’t really bring up fond memories.” 

Arthur thought about it for a moment, before bursting into a deep laughter. “You ain’t talkin’ about the mornin’ when Uncle—?” 

John bit his lip to keep from smiling, instead curling his lips in a grimace. “That’s the one.” 

“Swanson and Uncle was fightin’. Lord knows what it was about. By the time I turned the corner of Dutch’s tent, Uncle was moonin’ Javier, Sean. But the look on the Reverend’s face— you couldn’t put a price on it.” 

“That wild coot.” John grinned, and it made Arthur’s stomach flutter. “Ain’t seen him do it since, but I don’t doubt the bartender in Blackwater hasn’t seen his fair share of Uncle’s pasty rear end. Hand me that.” He pointed at the hammer, pulling out his own tent leather. It looked brand new. 

Curiously, Arthur asked John when he made it. 

“‘Bout two months ago. Bought it, actually, from a vendor. Pre-made. Seems you can get everything pre-made, nowadays.” 

Arthur’s eyes roamed the leather. “Must have cost you a penny or two.” 

“Weren’t nothin’. Not now. I told you about the Blackwater stash?” John hammered down on the pegs for his own tent. 

“Not yet,” Arthur moved to where John has pitched his tent, eager to hear what he had to say. 

“We got it. Sadie, Charles and me.” John gave Arthur the most confident look. It really made him proud knowing they hadn’t left that money to be found by someone else. “But…” And then his face fell. 

Arthur took the hammer from John’s hand, doing his best to hide the fact that their fingers brushing didn’t send a whirlwind of emotions from his fingers to somewhere significantly lower. “But what?” 

“We killed Micah. He’s the one found it.” 

The hammer dropped with a low thud on the sand. Arthur’s eyebrows couldn’t have gotten any closer. Just hearing that name made his skin crawl. “You killed him?” 

John nodded. 

“Why?” 

Of all the things he expected Arthur to say, “Why?” definitely wasn’t one of them. “We thought you was dead because of him. He ratted us out to the Pinkertons. Dutch shot Molly because Micah let her take the fall for his own actions. He left me to die. He left you to die.” John’s blood started boiling. “We had plenty reason.” 

And yet, Arthur shook his head at all of it. “You were out. Why in God’s name would you put that in jeopardy?” He scoffed, standing up and gesticulating wildly. “I thought you knew better than to put yourself in danger again.”

John’s nose flared, and he couldn’t even bare to look at the man before him. He killed Micah _for Arthur._ He killed Micah _for his family._ And still Arthur couldn’t understand it, why John had to do it. If Arthur wanted to remain blind to those facts, then fine. “Fuck you, then.” He stalked off to Rachel, grabbing at his fishing pole and small tackle box. 

“Go on ahead and mope, then,” Arthur called, his voice starting loud and ending in almost a murmur. “See if I care.” 

*******

_I don’t know what I expected._

John took in a deep breath, and then let it go, the exhale visible in the moonlight in the form of vapor. The temperature was dropping, but he wouldn’t budge. Rachel was a few yards away, grazing merrily on the grass with Sweet Boy. She was closer to Arthur than she was to him, and he wouldn’t be getting near the man any time soon. Not after their fight. Guess he’d have to make do without his coat.

_Arthur’s_ coat, he remembered. The one he remembered seeing in the midst of all that white, snowy landscape. Blue and tan, enveloping the one who came to save him, when the wolves made him a scarred man. 

_“That’s quite a scratch you got there.”_

_John looked up, finding the friendly faces of Javier and Arthur staring down at him. They were all covered up, and they looked mighty warm compared to him. He held back a desperate smile. “Good to see you, Arthur Morgan.”_

_Arthur dropped down to John’s ledge, firm arms with his palms upward, and John draped his own arms across them._

_“You don’t look too good,” Arthur noted._

_“Don’t_ feel _too good neither.”_

_It was at that point that Arthur picked him up and set him over his shoulder, quick as a wink. In that biting, frozen landscape, it was a feat in itself to even carry one’s own weight. And that day, Arthur carried them both._

John shook the memory away, eyes finally focusing on the dark water below. 

_Don’t die just yet, cowboy._

Arthur sighed, chastising himself as he finished setting up John’s tent as a form of apology. He could be such a damned bastard at times. He couldn’t help it; sometimes the way he spoke was a tad harsh. It was a projection of his own self-hatred for his own rash, irresponsible decisions, and he’d made plenty. 

Explaining all this wouldn’t help John forgive him, though. So he kept quiet, and pitched John’s tent. When he was done, he pulled out their soup-in-a-can, poured it into a metal bowl, and heated it on the fire. 

*******

John settled down next to the fire, pulling out two well-sized smallmouth bass. “To go with the soup,” he explained to Arthur, who gave him an uncertain smile. He handed him the two fish and watched as Arthur expertly filleted them, chopped them up into pieces, careful to pull out the bones, and threw them in the pot. 

“We’ll have to wait a while longer to eat,” Arthur spoke meekly, scratching at his beard, “but at least our stomachs will get full, with a catch like that.” 

“I suppose.” John mumbled, eyes training themselves on the sparkling fire, mesmerizing him into a trance that he hoped would keep him from paying any attention to Arthur, and the way Arthur moved. Because he was _supposed_ to be mad at Arthur, after the remark he made. He was _supposed_ to be unable to look at him because the image of his face made him _angry inside_ — but it was the complete opposite. 

Like the day Arthur found him in the snow, John’s entire body lit up at seeing him. He wanted to grin. To lean in closer. To listen to everything he had to say. To voice his approval of Arthur’s entire being with every tiny detail, and it _maddened_ him because Arthur was just so set in his ways that he refused to see John for the man he truly was — a good man, who did a bad thing because it was the only thing he could think of to do, in order to soothe the hole in his heart. 

And yet…

John huffed, the scarf on his neck feeling a little tighter than usual. Loosening it, he looked over at Arthur, who looked like he’d just been caught knowing a woman in the most sacred of ways. 

Arthur blushed, clearing his throat. He didn't want to explain that he'd been staring at John's neck, and wondering just how soft and tender it would be, underneath his lips. Or explain how he wanted to kiss the scars on his face, the ones that were so beautiful, despite how he came to get them. Or about how he wished the last ten years, he could've spent every waking moment of them by John's side. But he did feel like apologizing, with his words this time, so he figured he start there. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” John knew it was stupid to ask, but all the emotions raging within him, for a multitude of reasons, just couldn’t be tamed entirely, and he felt like a fight. 

“For thinking that you would be any different than me.” Before John could retaliate, Arthur held a hand up to stop him. “I don’t mean no disrespect. I just, I always hoped you’d take the high road, once you’d made it out. That you’d leave all our bad luck and bad business behind ya.” Arthur sighed. “That you’d...be better than me. Because if I’m bein’ honest, the only reason I’m angry at you for goin’ after Micah is because I would’ve done the same.” 

John was quiet. The silence ate at Arthur the entire time, unsure and weary of what John was going to say. 

Finally, “I don’t regret what I did.” John’s voice was weak, and it sounded like gravel. As if he hadn’t spoken in years, but Arthur heard him all the same. “But I regret that when I did it, I still couldn’t bring you back.” 

Arthur’s eyes stung with an emotion he didn’t want to feel, and his vision blurred. It blurred so badly, he didn’t even realize that John was near to tears as well. 

“I missed you, you animal-loving, people-killing, insult-spouting bastard. I don't know how many times I gotta say it,” John’s voice hitched in his throat, “I put flowers on your damned grave.” His tears fell on his knuckles, and the anger he felt flowed with them. “And I hope that’s enough for you to drop it.” 

Arthur sniffled from across the campfire, hoping to god that John couldn’t see or hear him over the crackling fire. He nodded, squinting away the tears that begged to fall. He checked the pot, stirring it and taking a small mouthful of it to inspect the fish. It melted on his tongue so deliciously, he was sure Mr. Pearson would’ve complimented it. He looked up at the sky, and felt a drop of water land squarely on his left eye. Not bothering to wipe it away, Arthur picked up John’s bowl, and poured him some. “Eat up. Rain’s about to come down on us soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I should post this before another month goes by. I wanted to make it longer, but I guess I've now cut this chapter in half. Stay tuned! The next part has bed-sharing (:


	4. All American Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Of all the girls and boys to look my way_   
>  _Ain't nobody ever hit me this way_   
>  _So won't you come back with me_   
>  _And lay with me awhile_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of recent updates! I'm pretty bad at direction when it comes to fics. I tend to go with the flow and that leaves me pretty empty when it comes to my imagination. Anyway! I hope y'all like this chapter (:

John could hear Arthur grumbling to himself, even above the sound of a pattering rain. John, perfectly comfortable in the warmth of his own tent, stared silently at its peak, listening to the muttering cowboy a stone’s throw away.

“You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan. A damned fool.” The rustling of the tent, the tear of fabric, proceeded by a loud, frustrated groan. “Now you’ve gone and done it.”

John sat up, scooting nearer to the closed opening of his own tent. Pulling the two sides apart, he waited as his eyesight to the darkness and gloom, a hint of curiosity begging him to leave the tent and find out what happened, but what happened was clear as day.

Arthur’s tent had a gaping hole at the top, and the relentless rain poured down on him, no end in sight. He could see Arthur’s silhouette inside, the small candlelight casting Arthur’s shadow and glowing through the tear. John couldn’t contain himself.

It was his laughter that sent Arthur peeking through his own tent, and it only did more to send John rolling on the floor.

Wet and full of fury, Arthur called out. “It ain’t funny.”

“Sure looks funny from over here,” John coughed out, his glee overwhelming his lungs entirely, until he was barely able to breathe. He damned himself for not giving up his smoking habit sooner.

Arthur grunted, feeling the rain seeping through his clothes and into his pores, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He refused to ask for help, though. He was stubborn like that. “Well, I’m glad my suffering entertains you, Marston. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to sleeping with the fish.” He made to close the tent flap, when John hollered back.

“Hey, don’t be a fool, Morgan. You can’t sleep in that.” John opened up his tent flap a little more, head motioning in a welcoming gesture towards the inside of his own tent.

“You sure?” Morgan called back in a hesitant manner. “Wouldn’t want to impose on your privacy.”

“We used to sleep in the same tent when we were youngin’s, if you recall.”

Arthur clicked his tongue, nodding. “Fair point, I guess.”

“Unless you prefer to catch your death over there. You don’t sound too enthusiastic to be spendin’ the night with me, old man.”

Arthur’s mouth turned into an “o” as he shook his head aggressively, “No, no I-”

“Guess I’ll go back to bed, then.” John made to close the tent flap.

“Marston, please.” Arthur yelled, not able to look John in the face. “I’m beggin’ ya.”

John gave him a grin so smug, Arthur wanted to punch him and kiss him, all at once. “Never thought I’d live to see the day when I had Arthur Morgan beggin’ for my help.”

“You won’t live much longer, the wetter I get,” Arthur winced as he said the words, failing at being threatening with his terrible choice of words. But it was enough for John to put his offer back on the table.

“Come here, old man.” John called out with a wave of his hand, motioning into his tent once more.

By the time Arthur found himself in John’s tent, it was too late to realize that he had no blanket, and he was soaked through. He looked helplessly over at John, who just sighed. Seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled out Arthur’s blue winter coat, and held it out for him. “I don’t have much else to give you.”

Arthur stood silent for what seemed like an eternity, not at all sure what this was coming to. He knew that if he kept his clothes on, he’d catch a mean cough for sure, and he was done with those. Lord knows he’d had his fair share of sickness in his life. So that left him with one option: strip down to the bare essentials, and use the coat as a blanket.

His coat. He felt the rough wool of its collar beneath his fingertips, recognised the terrible blood stain on the left lapel, where he’d gotten shot at. This was his coat, all right. And John still had it.

The rational side of his brain wanted to think that it was just because it was a damned good coat, and John would’ve been a fool not to keep it. But Arthur knew better now, and it ached his heart to think about it. John had missed his friend, and now here he was.

_I hurt him more than I’ll ever know._

With that thought in his mind, Arthur began to strip to his undergarments, delicately peeling off the button down shirt that clung to his chest.

John found it nearly impossible to draw his eyes away from Arthur’s bare body. Every time he thought he managed it, his eyes focused ever closer on the rippling muscles, the soft hairs on his chest, and Arthur’s delicate nipples. He cleared his throat, turning away finally in an effort to be respectful.

“Ain’t no big deal,” Arthur remarked, in a voice that nearly cracked. Because it was a big deal, actually, and he had no idea what those words meant to John, for he had said them mostly with himself in mind. Arthur’s hands shook as he unbuttoned his belt, but he held them steady as he unzipped his pants quickly. Within seconds, they pooled on the floor around his ankles, and he kicked them to the side. He suddenly felt very, very cold, and more damp than he ever expected of himself. Luckily, the rain hadn’t soaked through to his underwear, thank god. This was as bare and exposed as he could stand to be.

It dawned on the both of them that space in the tent was limited, and they stared at each other in silence for a time. John’s eyebrows furrowed as he played the conversation out in his head at how it was going to go, and he figured that it was best to stop worrying about it or they’d both suffer the rest of the night. John hadn’t lain with another human being in months, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. 

Would he feel guilty? As far as the records showed, he was a married man. Was it proper to lie with another person, when his wife, his Abigail, was out there somewhere? He shook his head. Who even knew if she was being faithful to him? He surely didn’t. Besides, this would just be two friends sharing warmth. It was out of...mutual necessity, was it not?

 _No,_ John thought to himself. _It’s too much._

Arthur wrapped the coat around himself and settled down next to John, who had turned his back to him and lay on his side. He mirrored the man, lying down and staring at the opposite wall of the tent, so their backs grazed each other, but just barely. Still, it was enough intimacy to where Arthur could feel the warmth of John radiating from him, and he longed to feel it even closer. He dared not move, though. This was peculiar enough without making John uncomfortable.

“Well,” John choked out the word, the air in the tent suddenly so thick he could hardly breathe, “you all right? You comfortable?” Even in the delicate situation he was in, he still managed to be considerate, and Arthur took notice.

“Sure. Just _fine._ ” Arthur responded in a low voice. John bit his lip in a frustration he’d never felt for a man before. It was like Arthur had picked just the right words to get him riled up. Drawling them ever so slowly like Arthur did, it was enough to want to turn around and kiss him right then, and feel the comfort of those lips that came to speak in such a way.

“Arthur.” John spoke, his voice like gravel. No matter how many days and months and years it had been since he gave up smoking, his voice would serve him as a reminder.

“Yes, Johnny.” Arthur grinned to himself, knowing the nickname would irritate the other man. He was glad to be rid of the butterflies in his stomach, if only for a brief moment. He pulled the coat closer around him, willing the heat to envelop him.

“You’re shakin’ like a rattler.” It was a statement of fact.

“I’m freezin’ my balls off, John, what do you expect?” His voice always got louder when he was frustrated.

John inhaled deeply, not wanting to let it go. He kept his eyes shut real tight, knowing that he had no choice. He pretended not to be fazed by the idea, but the truth was that his heart thumped a mile a minute at the prospect of human contact.

He let out a breath, and allowed himself to shove his back closer to Arthur’s.

Arthur hissed at the contact. John was warm, _just so. Warm._ His back was towards the sun, the sun radiating an energy that couldn’t be measured. All he felt was heat.

So much comfort. So much serenity. Pleasure seemed too imprecise a word, in the mind of John Marston. From the moment they touched, his mind wandered.

_Abigail’s smile when I asked her to marry me._

_The moment Arthur and I found Jack and brought him home._

_When Arthur and Javier saved me on the mountain, and I knew I wasn’t alone._

The word “pleasure” wasn’t enough for any of those moments, and it wasn’t enough for this one now.

**~*****~**

He had awoken to the sound of tender droning tickling his earlobe. He’d forgotten, for the moment, where he was, until his ear registered the pitter patter of raindrops on leather and the sunlight creeping in and dancing along his eyes from the opening in the tent.

Arthur stirred, before frowning at the constricting force of _John’s arms_ (John's arms!) wrapping tighter around him.

He sighed, unable to move.

Considerate of the sleeping man at his side, Arthur did not flinch. He loosened the tension in his body, and allowed himself to enjoy the contact. He lay like that, smile getting brighter as he thought about John sleeping so peacefully. It was bound to be past morning, and yet still John slumbered.

_I reckon he hasn’t slept this late in months._

A small groan slipped past John’s lips, satisfied and content; that much was clear. With each passing moment, Arthur’s eyelids began to flutter, the inability to move a muscle for fear of waking John too much for his mind to handle. _Maybe I ought to catch a few more winks of my own._

**~*****~**

John awoke with a start at the sound of boots on gravel, spurs clinking, and the clear cocking of a gun. He was halfway up before he realized that Arthur sat next to him, unclothed and unarmed, and John was the only one who could do anything about the disturbance. Silently, Arthur gestured with his eyes towards John’s own satchel a few feet away, and John understood.

_Get your gun._

Whispers outside the tent and Sweet Boy’s soft neighs masked the noise of John’s movement, and he was at the opening with his gun in the stranger’s face before they had a chance to call him out.

“John Marston, you get that gun out of my face before I give you scars the wolves only dream of making.”

Arthur recognized that voice. Like John’s, it was like gravel, only it was feminine in nature. No doubt the next thing he’d notice when he walked out of the tent, coat wrapped tightly about his person, would be the dirty golden hair and freckled face of Sadie Adler.

Her eyes widened as she held John in a tight embrace, her eyes unable to pick one spot to latch onto before they became bewildered at the sight of the man before him. She did not speak.

“Missus Adler.”

John pulled away, turning and following Sadie’s eyes as she took in the sight of Arthur. A bubble of excitement grew in his chest as he realized she must be seeing a ghost, just as he had a few weeks prior. He was unable to contain his joy at having such good news to share with his old friend, that he didn’t wait for Arthur to continue or Sadie to reply. “Missus Adler, I believe you remember our old friend, Arthur Morgan.”

A few more heartbeats passed.

Arthur’s eyes glistened with the emotional weight of this moment, but not for the reason John believed. Arthur’s eyes begged Sadie not to betray his secret, the secret that John couldn’t know. Not just yet.

Besides Charles, Sadie was the first of the gang to find out he was alive.

John put his hands on his hips, glanced down at the ground beneath their feet. He gulped, and realized this was maybe a moment he didn’t need to be a part of. He walked over to Rachel, pulling a cigarette out of one of the saddlebags, and led Rachel down to the lake for a drink as he lit his smoke.

She seemed all too quiet, for finding out Arthur’s alive. _That’s not really how I expected her to react, but I guess I never did know her that well._ John shook the thought away, and thought instead about how Abigail would berate him for smoking, even just this once.

Sadie and Arthur let out a sigh of relief, only hugging and speaking once John was out of earshot.

“You haven’t told him yet?” Sadie whispered - frustrated - in his ear. “You moron.”

“Good to see you, too, Missus Adler.”

“Don’t you start.” She kissed him gingerly on the forehead, Arthur’s eyes going wide at the touch of her lips. It didn’t feel the same, not like he imagined John would, or how Mary and Eliza did. It was amicable, platonic. Like a sister would. Though it was clear it was a learned trait from a more gentler soul.

“How’s Charlotte?”

Sadie’s scowl disappeared. “She’s doin’ just fine. Asks about you every time I’m back home.” She rolled her eyes. “Started to get a little annoyed by the question. It’s out of her mouth before I can even take my boots off, usually.” Arthur laughed at that. “No, ‘are you alright, sweetheart?’ No, ‘’did you get the bastards, sweetie?’ No, it’s always, ‘how’s Arthur? Have you seen him?’”

Arthur bit his lip to keep from smiling. “I’m sorry for...bein’ a strain, on your relationship.”

Sadie scoffed. “I promise you, those questions are the last time she thinks about you. The few days I spend at home.... I make her forget about you real damned quick.”

Arthur blushed at the implication, taking a glance at the man smoking at the lakeshore.

“Speaking of making people forget....is this for real?” She gestured at his lack of clothing. “Did I really see you walk out of John Marston’s tent wearing nothing but a coat?”

“My tent had a hole in it.”

Sadie crossed her arms, eyebrow raised. “Mhm.”

Arthur began to stutter. “He...he offered me to stay in his tent, due to, the rain. As it was. It was pourin’, the rain. My clothes got wet.” He scowled, but it did nothing to intimidate her.

“This coat is dry as a corn husk.” She observed.

He got her meaning. “He gave me the coat. It was mine, once upon a time. He didn’t want me to freeze to death, what with the rain an’ all.”

“I can’t believe you explained all that. When you have nothing to hide, you normally say it’s none of my business and what’s it to me, anyway.”

Arthur huffed. “Nothing happened. And it ain’t your business.”

“Whatever,” Sadie shrugged. “Anyway, best make this look like I got angry at you. I got a feelin’ John’s confused by my reaction to seein’ you.” She nodded in the direction of John, who’d just finished with his cigarette and was shoving it into the sand with his boot, and was walking back towards them. Arthur gave a little nod back in agreement, before she slapped him in the face.

“You’re a dumb son of a bitch, Arthur Morgan. Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you understand me?”

John grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back to keep her from doing anything particularly nasty. “Whoa, Missus Adler, calm-”

“You tell me to calm down, John Marston, and I will show you what crazy is.” John let go of her, palms raised to show he was backing off. She pulled down on her shirt, letting out a short, huffy breath. “You had a ghost in your tent. Just surprised me is all.”

“That I did.” John blushed, suddenly all too aware again that Arthur was only wearing a coat. “Maybe you should um,” he coughed to clear his throat, “get dressed.”

“Sure.” Arthur walked off towards Sweet Boy, searching his saddlebags for any spare clothing.

“Arthur,” Sadie called. He paused, inclined to listen. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Sadie.”

John let out a breath. “So you gonna tell me why you showed up at my camp, gun cocked and nearly scared us to death?”

“Coffee first, answers later.”

John laughed. “All right, then.”


End file.
